


Where Everybody Knows Your Shape

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 13:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13249266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: Swerve's alt-mode curiosity is notorious, but now it's causing real trouble.  Lucky that Ratchet's had experience dealing with difficult ex-Decepticons who are struggling to fit in.  A little twist on one of the flashbacks from MTMTE 22.





	Where Everybody Knows Your Shape

“Hello, Swerve.  No.”

 

Swerve boggles slightly.  “No?  I haven’t said anything yet.”

 

Ratchet lifts a finger – how smoothly the new hands move, even in the smallest gestures.  Then he languidly drains what’s left of his engex before replying.  “I realise that.  I’m giving you that  _no_  for free, because I’m generous that way.  It’s a very flexible  _no_ , good for everything except a genuine medical emergency. And I  _know_ you don’t have one of those, because if you did, you’d have gone to the med bay, and if First Aid couldn’t handle it,  _he’d_ be the one comming me.”  He settles more deeply into his booth in the back of the bar, and lets out an ostentatious sigh.  “So unless you’ve started giving out free drinks, and in something bigger than a test tube, we have  _two_ brand-new medics you can take it up with.  I am  _off duty,_ Swerve.  Do you know how long it’s been since I could say those words?”

 

“But!” Swerve glances back to the bar, and, puzzlingly, lowers his voice. “But the emergency  _is_ one of those new medics!”

 

“What?” Ratchet is on his feet like he’s been shot out of a gun.  “Where? What’s happened?”

 

“There!”

 

The CMO cranes his head where Swerve is pointing.  Ratchet is looking for the usual signs – someone on the ground, the telltale sight and smell of spilled fuel, a general air of panic among the bystanders. That’s why it takes him a minute to process exactly what he’s seeing.

 

Standing upright by the end of the bar is… well, a leg.  It’s comparatively massive, nearly the height of a mech on its own; whoever it belongs to would probably struggle to fit in the door to Swerve’s.  But it’s here on its own.  Just a leg.

 

“He won’t change back,” Swerve whispers, sounding miserable.  “I just wanted to startle him, to see what his alt looks like.  I didn’t _mean_ anything by it.”

 

Ratchet relaxes, nods.  “I’ll go.”

 

On his way across the room, he taps Drift lightly on the shoulder. Drift looks up in surprise, but gamely obeys the urgent jerk of Ratchet’s head and follows after him.

 

They take up positions, casually leaning on the bar, on either side of the leg.

 

“Let me guess,” Ratchet murmurs.  It’s soft enough that no one else can hear; if they see his lips moving, they’ll mostly likely assume he’s just speaking to Drift.  “You hate standing there in alt mode, people all around, but you don’t want to transform and have to walk out past everyone, so you’re stuck.”

 

There’s a pause so long that Ratchet starts to wonder whether he’s been heard; and then Ambulon says in a small voice, “Yeah.  You’ve got it.”

 

Nonchalantly, Ratchet shifts closer, and turns so that he’s standing at an angle to the bar, his back to Ambulon.  This way, the bulk of his frame forms a screen between the room and the mech behind him.  Drift catches on, and mimics the movement on the other side.  Ambulon is now completely hidden in the small pocket of space between their bodies and the bar.

 

If Rewind were here, he’d probably describe the transformation noise as “disconsolate”, but Ratchet is relieved to hear it, all the same.

 

Ambulon’s head pops up next to Ratchet’s.  The former Decepticon’s optics look vaguely hunted.  Ratchet puts a hand on his back, careful of the peeling paint, but firm.  “You’re fine, kid,” he rumbles.  “But you still don’t need to walk out in front of these gearsticks if you don’t want to.  Why don’t you stay for a bit, have a drink with us?  In fact – Swerve!”

 

Swerve, who’s been trying without great success to seem like he’s not watching them, glances over, startled, and shoots Ambulon an uncertain grin.  Ambulon regards him suspiciously.

 

“I think our friend here needs a drink,” Ratchet says.  “Stiff as you can make it.  Oh, and… on the house.”

 

Swerve lets out a squawk and looks as though he’s about to protest, but a look from Ratchet silences him.  Ambulon glances sidelong at Ratchet. There’s a reluctant smile struggling its way onto Ambulon’s face, and by the time his drink arrives (Swerve’s gone all out – it’s a frothy, vibrantly pink concoction bedecked with curly straws and what Ratchet can only think of as  _guilt umbrellas_ ), his lips have very definitely acquired an upward curve.

 

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

 

Ratchet looks along the length of his arm, to where his hand that is not  _his_ hand is resting on Ambulon’s messily speckled paintjob.  Beyond Ambulon, Drift is watching them both.

 

“You’re one of us now,” Ratchet says, and he isn’t sure which of them he’s talking to, but he knows he doesn’t just mean faction.

**Author's Note:**

> In one of Terry Pratchett's novels, he describes Biers, the bar for the undead and the mythical, with a riff on the "Cheers" theme tune: "Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your shape." :) I thought that was quite fitting for Swerve's, where everybody knows your shape... whether you want them to or not.


End file.
